


up with the lark

by coatsandjumpers



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Retirement, Romance, arthur buys a lighthouse, because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatsandjumpers/pseuds/coatsandjumpers
Summary: Arthur lets the consistency lull him, gentle and easy, into his own form of contentment.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	up with the lark

Arthur is well-aware that purchasing a lighthouse in the far reaches of the northern United States reeks of a mid-life crisis, but he’s not the type to fall prey to existential angst. Since he’s moved here, his days are quiet but busy, and regrets and what-ifs have no home in his schedule.  
  
It’s only been a few months since he officially retired, but he’s already adjusted his schedule to the rise and fall of the sun like some prehistoric caveman. He finds that life is easier that way, and Arthur takes to walking the shore at sunrise, still half-asleep as the light comes up, the sound of the waves gentle in the dawn.  
  
Besides, Arthur likes seafood. It all makes sense, really.  
  
\---

Most days, Arthur doesn’t spare a glance at his reflection as he makes his way through his morning routine. Today, though, the light catches on the silver at his temples, and Arthur pauses to stare, before huffing a laugh. Vanity has no place here, and Arthur would know: he wears thick-soled rubber boots on the daily. The Maine shoreline is rocky and unforgiving that way. 

Anyway, there’s no one here to see him except for a few stray gulls, who are mean to Arthur no matter what he’s wearing.

\---  
  
In some ways, Arthur navigates retirement with the single-minded drive he’s weaponized his entire life. Every day, he makes the bed with hotel precision, corners turned down and soft sheets made sharp. He makes to-do lists and checklists, the habit ingrained too deep to leave behind.  
  
In other ways, though, Arthur finds that learning to live without his job is like learning to be an entirely new person. These days, the items on his checklist are more along the lines of “fix upstairs railing” and “go clamming for dinner” than “research” and “more research”. 

Arthur discovers that life is less stressful when you actually have enough time to do the tasks you need to do, and he takes a simple kind of pleasure in going through his list one by one, all the hours in the day stretched before him. He’s not sure why it took him so long to learn that lesson, but he’s reaping the rewards of his new knowledge now.  
  
 _Better late than never_ , he thinks, looking over the railing he’s reinforcing, two nails between his lips, hammer loose by his side, the reflections of the clouds bruises on the surface of the sea.

\---   
  
Arthur finds the solitude soothing, a balm after so many years of hectic activity and patchwork teammates. He goes to sleep with the ocean in his ears and wakes the same way, and he lets the consistency lull him, gentle and easy, into his own form of contentment.

Some evenings though, as the light fades down his walls, Arthur feels a deep ache, the beauty and quiet of this place wrapped up in a not-quite-nostalgia that hits him all at once. It’s a feeling that has Arthur climbing the endless stairs that lead to the top of the lighthouse, where a now defunct beacon is held. The days are long past when sailors needed this lighthouse to navigate to shore, so Arthur isn’t sure why he turns the lamp on and lets the light shine, opaque in its brightness. He just knows that as he watches the beam disappear into the dark folds of the waves, the ache in him eases ever so slightly, like a hand only beginning to let go.

\---

Arthur hears the truck before he sees it, the rumble of it cutting easily through the sound of the water. It’s been a while since Arthur’s heard much besides the ocean and the gulls, and he’s curious, eyes scanning the long road to the lighthouse.  
  
The truck that finally comes into view is dusty and beat up, a dull red beneath all the dirt. It’s so American, it makes Arthur want to laugh.  
  
Arthur does not laugh when it’s Eames who hops out of the driver’s seat, landing with a small poof of sand like this is the beginning of a bizarre, sea-side western.  
  
This may be middle-of-nowhere-Maine, but Arthur isn’t a hermit. He has electronics and wifi, and he calls people (Dom) every now and then, but after a lifetime spent on call, Arthur thinks he’s earned the right to disconnect. That’s why he bought a _lighthouse_ . Most people got the message after that.  
  
“How’d you find me?” Arthur asks. There’s no hostility. He’s glad to see Eames, but he can’t fathom how he got here or why he bothered driving to the edge of the country just to visit. Arthur’s mind flashes stupidly to the beacon he’d lit last night. _A light to bring wanderers to shore_. 

“Google Maps,” Eames says, waggling his phone at him. “Cobb gave me your address.”  
  
Arthur snorts. Trust Eames to ruin some perfectly good symbolism.  
  
“Well,” Arthur says, “Don’t just stand there. Come inside.”

\---  
  
Arthur makes them a pot of tea. He studies Eames over the rim of his teacup, staring unabashedly. He looks tanned, face a little scruffy, hair a little longer, but otherwise the same as ever.  
  
“Still living the nomadic life, then?” Arthur asks, eyeing Eames’ stubble and rumpled shirt.  
  
“Seems like it,” Eames responds, smiling. “No one said I had to settle down just because I retired.”  
  
Suddenly, it’s like old times, all banter during breaks and stolen minutes over bad take-out, except that they’re not on a job— they’re in Arthur’s home.  
  
For a moment, Arthur considers asking Eames what he’s doing here, but as they drain their cups, stray tea leaves plastered to the bottom of the china, Arthur finds himself saying, “Are you staying for dinner?”  
  
Eames sets down his teacup with a delicate clink.  
  
“If you’ll have me.”

\---  
  
As they make their way down the shore, water lapping at their feet, Arthur thinks back on their trail of jobs, warehouses, and hotel rooms. It’s not that they hadn’t considered it. They’d had something more than trust but less than love, and they both knew it, but their line of work didn’t take kindly to liabilities, and that was that.  
  
Arthur doesn’t waste time with regrets, but sometimes he wishes the choice hadn’t been so simple.  
  
\---  
  
When Arthur starts wading into the water, Eames stares after him and doesn’t move. Arthur’s already knee deep when Eames calls out, “Where are you going?”  
  
Arthur looks back. “This is dinner,” he yells, holding up the pail he’s been carrying. “Oysters, remember?”  
  
Eames moves closer with obvious reluctance. “I didn’t realize you meant fresh seafood quite so literally.”  
  
Arthur lets an oyster drop into the bucket with an obnoxiously loud clang.  
  
“What you harvest is what you eat, so I’d get started if I were you.”  
  
“I see retirement hasn’t made you any less bossy,” Eames laughs, leaning over the water and dipping his hands in the surf.  
  
\---  
  
Back on the shore, Arthur shows Eames how to use a shucking knife, moving the blade in easy, practiced movements to reveal the pale oyster inside. The brine of the ocean is bright against Arthur’s tongue, and they spend a few minutes in silence, tipping oysters back as though they’re toasting to the sea.  
  
\---  
  
The night is leeching the last rays out of the sky by the time they’re finished, lips tingling with salt.  
  
Arthur can just make out Eames in the fading light, dyed warm by the dusk. 

“I’ve heard oysters are aphrodisiacs,” Eames says, doing something stupid with his eyebrows.

“Shut up _,_ ” Arthur says, no bite, and kisses him.

Eames’ hand comes up to cradle Arthur’s face, and it’s cold and slimy with oyster bits, but Arthur can taste salt and something more on Eames’ tongue, and he lets it happen, the waves cresting in time with the roaring in his own ears.

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: to the lighthouse... bc... lighthouses
> 
> also i know nothing about harvesting oysters, sorry


End file.
